“I did,” she says proudly. “I can clean, you know. It’s not rocket science, and a bottle of bleach goes for an eternity and makes everything seem cleaner than it is.”
“Not rocket science, but it is a skill. I can’t clean for the life of me. Things always look worse after I start.” I push through the foyer, which is beautiful, with an iridescent blue glass tile on the floor. “Italian?” I ask her.
“You know it.”
“How do you clean them?”
“It’s best with a toothbrush and Windex for deep cleaning, but a rag works for normal touch-ups. I have this environmental stuff for when I have my green friends over, but Windex works best.”
“I was banned from cleaning at the house. One time I tried to wipe the stainless-steel fridge down and used furniture polish by mistake. I didn’t read the label. It never did recover, and my maid told me if I touched ‘her’ fridge again, I’d never hear the end of it. So I decided to embrace my slovenliness that day.”
“I clean to ward off anxiety. It calms me.”
“Well, you’re welcome to come over and get relaxed anytime you feel like it. This will be like a spa date for you.” I wink. “I’m kidding. I’ll hire someone and take good care of the place. There are truths you learn about yourself in life. Like maid service is not a luxury for me and that once I start a tub o’ frosting, I am not putting it down until I scrape the bottom of it.”
“That is nasty. Don’t admit that.” She puts the bleach down in the hall closet. “Don’t hire anyone. I’ll come clean it. You can scrape the iridescence off this if you scrub too much. Maids always want to scrub too much.”
“Right. Just lend me your million-dollar condo, then come over and clean it while you’re at it. I’ll hire whoever you want me to. Did you want to cook for me, too?”
“I can’t cook.”
“Good. I can. Now, we’re equal again, we can be friends.” I try to take in all the visuals around me, but there is a complete absence of buff or sand or whatever you want to call California-can’t-trust-myself-with-color beige.
The condo is awash in this incredible underwater, tropical blue with iridescent tones and silver accents. It sounds tacky, but it’s luxurious in a way I never thought possible. It’s warm and relaxing and yet clean and sparse. The blues are warmed by a honey-colored wood floor and a Persian rug that ties all the colors together subtly. “This place is incredible.”
“It’s the first place I decorated totally on my own. No designer involved. I tried everything, and I thought if it didn’t work, I could always change it later, but I loved it from the very start. It makes me feel like I’m in Hawaii all the time.” She points to the French doors. “Look on the patio, I had that Queen Palm put in, and it’s like my own lanai.”
“Lindsay”—I walk around and gaze at the artwork and vases she has about—“this is beyond simple decorating, you have a gift! Why don’t you charge for your services?”
She grins. “I don’t think I could be reined in by someone’s rules. This place…” She runs her hand along a wall. “This place was my refuge when Ron and I separated. I put all my angst into tile selection and paint chips.”
“It worked for you. I just got fat eating chocolate frosting and ruined expensive shoes in spa chairs.”
“Shut up. You look fantastic. If you’re fat, the rest of us should all shoot ourselves.”
“What am I going to do, Lindsay? What am I going to do with my life?”
“Working at CMG and living in Bel Air doesn’t sound like all that bad a life!”
“Oh I know that, but it doesn’t really solve my problem.”
“Your problem?”
“Never mind. You don’t need to hear me whine. I want to cover your mortgage on this place with rent. I can afford rent, you know. I’ll have my money working for me because I’ve been getting great tips from a friend. Your husband.”
“Yes, he called and said you were on your way over. There’s no mortgage. Ron pays for everything with cash.”
“There’s taxes. Let me cover the taxes at least.”
“We need the write-off. Ron said so. Come take the full tour.”
“Ron is someone I have to meet. He’s beside himself that you’re coming home.”
Lindsay looks off into the distance. “Yeah.”
That was convincing. Marriage is like calculus. Complicated and inexplicably remote. People think it’s about loving one another and riding off into the sunset, but no one tells you the horse is lame or that it’s an eclipse, and there won’t be a sunset that day.
Loving someone more than yourself takes more than effort—especially when they want something different from you. Especially when the something different is a sleazy actress. The truth of what goes on inside any marriage is really only for those involved to know.
“All I know is Ron would buy you an island.”
“What are you talking about? This is the living area—” Lindsay points like Vanna. “I redesigned the place when I bought it. You should have seen it, oh it was a mess. Ron begged me not to take it. It was like Dean Martin meets Elvis’s jungle room. But I saw its potential. It wanted to be given a new life and maybe in the process, I’d get one too.”
“Maybe that’s what I need? More of a purpose.”
There’s a floating circular staircase in the middle of the room as the place was the height of chic in 1960. It blocks the straight view to the kitchen, which is amazing. I run right to it. “Oh Lindsay! What do you mean you don’t cook?”
“I don’t cook, but I know enough about real estate to know it’s the heart of the sale.”
The cabinets are a painted silvery blue lacquer with small glass tiles as the backsplash, and all of the appliances are top-of-the-line, stainless steel.
“Lindsay, why on earth would you lend this place out? Are you nuts?” Standing in the tropical warmth of this house, it’s all too much to take in how my life is slowly turning around. “You don’t even know me that well. Why are you doing this?”
“Lending you the condo while you get your life back on track?”
“Well, yeah.”
“God told me to.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s not an answer you believe, but it’s the truth. Seriously, when you walked in that first night, and we had coffee? That’s when He told me you’d live here. I didn’t even know Ron and I would get back together, so at that point, I thought He meant we’d live together as roomies.”
“Well, if God wants me to have a million-dollar condo in Bel Air, who am I to argue?”
“My point exactly. So I take it by your dancing stalker, you got the job.”
“I did! And what’s better? I think I’m going to be good at it. It’s nothing more than what I’ve done for eight years, only I get paid for it, and I don’t have to sleep with the boss, Bud Seligman.”
She laughs. “Thank goodness for that. I’ve seen Bud Seligman.”
I run back into the living room and plop myself on the couch, kicking up my stocking feet on the coffee table. I’ve been here two minutes and feel more at home than I ever did in the Brentwood house.
“I’m home.”
Lindsay smiles broadly. “I knew when I designed this place, it wasn’t for me. I’m glad I get to see who it’s for, and I’m glad I like her. Nothing worse than handing a house over to someone you don’t like—even if you do like their cash.”
“Lindsay, I can never make this up to you.”
“You can.”
“How?”
“You can read this.” She hands me a Bible, and it’s got my name inscribed on the cover. I hate to tell her I’ve been reading the free one in the motel for nothing, but I’ve never had a Bible.
“I’ve never owned one. We used to read booklets that had the Bible printed in sections for the sermons,” I muse before noting she’s waiting for an answer. “I’ll read it. Thank you.”
“Start in Matthew. It makes the Old Testament
make more sense later.”
It creeps me out that it’s so imperative to her that I read an ancient text, but all the religions I’ve ever heard of ask for money, they don’t give you million-dollar condos to live in, and Lindsay has been nothing but there for me. So for her…for this condo, I’ll honor the agreement. Besides, it’s cheaper sleeping medicine than Ambien.
Chapter 14
After two months, and the end of a long, cold winter and a chilly spring, May arrives. The hardest part of my job has been learning who is important enough to get through to Bud, and who isn’t. Most people aren’t, so I start with that assumption. If they’re brandishing the name Hanks or Spielberg, common sense kicks in, but every once in a while, someone without a famous Jewish name calls, and I incur Bud’s wrath. Like now.
“Don’t you know who that is, Haley? You’ve been in this business for ten years, how is it you managed to dismiss Bill Messing?”
“I just did, that’s all.” I add Mr. Messing’s name to my list of important people to put through. “Won’t happen again. See?” I hold up the list.
“See that it doesn’t. I had to listen to him for twenty minutes about how I couldn’t get a decent assistant to save my life. I don’t have twenty minutes, Haley.”
That makes me want to cross his name right off my list. Sometimes, I think Bud just has to get out of the office and roar at someone. Prove he’s still a man. Still alive. Still virile, as my mother would say.
Speaking of my mother, I called her on Lindsay’s cell phone and she trilled that Gavin is dating someone. Was I planning a visit home soon? Ugh. Does she not see that I am man poison? Only selfish, arrogant men are immune by their own wickedness.
Bud sticks his head out again, “I’m on a call for the next hour. Hold my calls.” He slams the door to his office, and I salute the door.
I look up and there’s a wall of a chest sitting on my desk. I look up to his face. Handsome features and a strong jaw meet my gaze.
“Can I h-help you?” See? I am looking for Trophy Husband material, this proves it!
“George Stanley.” He thrusts out a hand. “Bud’s my agent.” He sits back on my desk. “I’m starring in a new Western out next year, and I’m the new face for Melotti Underwear.”
“Right.” Do not create a visual. Do not create a visual. “I’m Haley Cutler, Bud’s new assistant.” I shake his hand, which is strong and firm.
“I can see that. Says right here Assistant.”
He can read. That’s a plus.
“I don’t have you down for an appointment, Mr. Stanley. Did you want to see Mr. Seligman?”
“No appointment today. I’m just in to pick up a check. The little Asian hottie in HR has it waiting for me. Just wanted to say hi.”
“Lily. Her name is Lily Tseng.”
“You’re not one of those women’s libbers, are you? Haven’t met a woman yet who didn’t appreciate being called a hottie.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Hey, I’m a virile man—”
“Haley, is that you?” Outside the door, standing in the hallway, is Hamilton Lowe. Speaking of virile. Ugh. I did not just think that. Bad Haley! But oh my, he’s like a steamy vision after seeing only Bud and his cronies important enough to get to the sanctuary. Even Underwear Boy isn’t tempting. Especially Underwear Boy isn’t tempting. There’s a world I could do without: public underwear showings. There was a time in my lifetime when you had to open a J.C. Penney catalog to see people in their underwear. Now it’s like the national pastime, hanging out in your underwear. I don’t see why they have to pay anyone to model it.
Hamilton steps inside the office and stands over my desk, completely ignoring Bud’s client. He picks up my nameplate. He’s still tall. I love that. Not that I care anything about him, you understand. I just like tall men. The norm is for me to tower over men, so it’s a sweet surprise when I don’t. It would be better still if this man weren’t the devil himself. He’s good eye candy regardless. More evidence that I am indeed shallow.
Hamilton’s wearing a red-and-navy pin-striped shirt. Facconable. It’s paired with a red silk power tie, so he must be here on business. Maybe he’s here to ruin some new woman’s life. He looks like the cover model for a Barcelino catalog. Facconable is one of my favorite brands on men because it’s classically fashionable and doesn’t look like he tried too hard, nor is it too metrosexual. I used to make Jay wear it when he had an important business meeting because it made him younger and more hip while being all business.
“I have a job,” I finally say, since he doesn’t seem to be willing to offer any cordialities of his own.
“I see that. Very impressive. Bud Seligman is not just any agent in this town. I suppose you know that.”
“Yes, he’s my agent,” Underwear Boy says.
We both ignore him. “Bud turned Rachel Barlin down, so I’d have to say that’s true. He has taste. He doesn’t regret it, by the way. Thinks she’s a shooting star who will die out fast, either in a scandal of some sort or make one bad movie too many,” I say, with a tinge of spite in my voice. “That’s impressive enough for me to work for anyone.” I stack papers that don’t need stacking, just to look professional.
“How’d you get this gig?” He nods toward the door.
“Tell Bud I stopped by and let him know I’m not impressed with his assistant.” The male model stalks off.
“Already making friends I see,” Hamilton says. “Did Jay give you the connections?”
“Believe it or not, Jay’s not really into doing me favors at the moment.” I sit up straight in my chair. I couldn’t have a better job for myself if I were paid millions. I was a great assistant to Jay Cutler, but I’m a better one to Bud because I’m simply not in love with the man. Love changes the equation. For me, it’s usually a negative number.
“It’s a pretty high-end position.” His face clouds. “I mean, for someone who hasn’t worked for—no—” He stops to collect his thoughts. “I mean for—”
“Never mind. I know what you mean. I see why you’re not a trial lawyer.” The phone rings, and I put a finger up in the air. “Bud Seligman’s office. Haley speaking, how may I help you?”
Bud has two lines of defense from callers. First, he has the downstairs’ operator, then he has me. He has a private line for those people in the know, but I answer that generally because he’s always on the phone.
“I’m not sure where he is in his production schedule, but I can check and have Bud get back to you…right…most definitely, it will be today. And thank you for calling.”
I hang up, and Hamilton is walking around the office, checking out all of Bud’s awards and recognition plaques.
“So what are you doing with yourself, Hamilton? I saw you at church a few weeks ago for Bible study, but you were in the sainted section, and I had to head to the sinners’ room.”
“You’re still coming?”
“Not regularly, but I still keep up with the gals. Did you expect a heathen like me to drop out?”
“I didn’t know if you were ready to hear what those women had to say.”
“Those women?”
“Stop it. You’re trying to catch me stumbling over my tongue. Can you assume something decent of me for one minute?”
“Not really, no.” Again, he gives me that wounded animal look.
“You’re making me answer to you to get money that rightfully belongs to me. That production business was at least 30 percent mine. If you think I should be decent to you, you underestimate your presence in my life, Hamilton.”
“I’m not representing Jay anymore if it makes you feel any better. He dumped me for someone more sharklike. Someone Rachel recommended.”
“Ah, so we both got dumped for the likes of Rachel. Pretty shrewd of her to get her own lawyer in place before any pre-nups.”
“Naturally, I’m still handling your case and the ones I wrote contracts for, but Jay says I don’t have the edge anymore.” Hamilto
n has the verge of a smile. “That should brighten your day.”
“Nothing is ever his fault, is it? That’s just what he’d have you believe, that you’ve lost your edge because he’s found someone better. Jay gets everyone around him to question their competence. Well, now you’re right alongside me. A castoff. You be the professor, I’ll be Mary Ann.”
“What?”
“I knew you wouldn’t get it.”
“I get it. Gilligan’s Island.”
This makes me smile because I can’t for the life of me imagine Hamilton Lowe was ever childish enough to sit through a sitcom. Any sitcom, much less Gilligan’s Island.
“Maybe this is a sign you’ve grown a conscience. Maybe you believe that Bible verse on your wall now, huh? I don’t remember what it said.”
“It said I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
“And can you?”
He ignores the question. “So the Trophy Wives Club is working out well? That Bette really has a heart of gold. She can teach you a lot about servanthood.”
I roll my eyes. “I think I could teach them all a thing about servanthood myself.”
“I meant servanthood in a good Biblical way, not a dysfunctional way.”
Hamilton is more nervous and fidgety than I’ve ever seen him before. Maybe it’s because we’re not on his turf, but he can’t sit still, and he keeps rolling a pen in his hand.
“Is something wrong, Hamilton?”
“What?” He looks to the pen and drops it back in his pocket. “No, nothing’s wrong. Why?”
“I owe you a debt of gratitude. Even if you didn’t mean for anything good to come of it, the women in that group rescued me from a very bad daytime TV addiction and chocolate frosting fetish.”
“Huh?”
“One of the gals found me this job. I moved into another’s town house, since she’s going back to her husband. One of them reminded me how much I wanted to be a mother…”
Crash!
The Trophy Wives Club Page 17